


The Journal of Dr. Richard Strand

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes, The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Gen, One-Sided Attraction, i should warn you that Im writing these on the fly as each episode is released, pining Strand is my favorite, so for now Im putting this series on pause until season 1 wraps up, so past chapters might conflict with newer episodes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Strand was known -jokingly- as The Thinker made flesh, always in a state of deep thought or writing them down in an old leather bound journal. Now, mulls over his thoughts of the journalist, Alex Reagan and the events of The Black Tapes podcast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 4th

I have no intentions of telling Alex this, but I actually got her earlier messages. Due to past experiences with the press and investigators, the inane questions and muckraking, I told my assistant to ignore her until she contacted me for the third time. I knew by then she was serious to meet me, whatever her reasons. 

I liked hearing her voice, it sounded earnest and sincere. It’s a trademark of honest and competent journalists. It was refreshing, when compared to young, nasally interns or pompous reporters who just wanted to run my name through the mud again. In a way, it reminded me of my wife. So I waited for a fourth call. Then a fifth, and the messages and emails piled up. By the 11th message, I knew I had to take action. Either she would show up to my office unannounced or she would lose interest me and move on to someone else. And what kind of scholar would I be if I lost the chance to share my knowledge to an eager listener?

After our first interview, I was glad I acted when I did. My work is my life. And to see these so-called experts, these “voices of reason”, make a mockery of my work and confuse the masses enrages me. To think, had I ignored her any longer, she would go to these “experts”. How they would lead her on with falsities and lies. I may be a private man, but I do not lie, nor would I do so to a journalist, hungry for the truth. I shouldn’t have been as callous when I deterred her from the black tapes. I feared I had scared her off. It was not my intent to come off as cold. I was trying to protect her. It was merely instinct to shield her away from the tapes, like a lion fending off hyenas from the kill. She wasn’t prepared, not like me. 

In a way, I was thankful someone stole her friend’s photos. It was my excuse to see her again, to amend my ways. But she’s a clever woman, cleverer than I expected. Somehow she charmed and wormed her way into the black tapes. I was sincere when I later complimented her ability to manipulate me, but is it really manipulation if I was willing?

After the Torez case, my fear that she would find out about my wife was confirmed. A smart woman with equally intelligent co-workers, I knew she would find out eventually. I was afraid what she would think of me. Would she think me a murderer? The Unsound was my way to bring her back, my saving grace.  _Trust me_ , I was trying to say, _let me prove myself to you. Don’t let those tabloid reporters corrupt you. I’m not the man the tabloids claim. I didn’t hurt my wife, and I won’t hurt you._ The whole skepticism speech was just a cover, a cover I fully believe in, but a cover none the less. 

I’ll be damned if I’m the reason her show goes under. I want her to prosper. I want her to be known as the person who brought some semblance of reason to the field of supernatural studies. And I wanted to be known as the man who helped, her right hand man. We make a remarkable team, if I do say so myself. The journalist and the doctor, it has a ring to it. And she’s done something that no one -save Cora Lee and Charley- has been able to do for many years. She made me laugh. Granted not the gut busting laugh common in children, but it’s enough for me to notice. And seeing her smile when I do…priceless.

However, I know her trust in me wavers from time to time. She wants to believe the stories, she even called me condescending one time I was more vehement in my skepticism. I’ve been called worse. Condescending doesn’t pack a punch when compared to ‘murderer’. Yet her words cut me just as deeply. Anything she says to me in all honesty, hurts. Sometimes its pleasant if that makes any sense. Other times it hurts so badly I want to bash my head against the hotel wall. As Emily Dickinson wrote: 

_"She dealt her pretty words like Blades—_

_How glittering they shone—_

_And every One unbared a Nerve_

_Or wantoned with a Bone—"_

Alex doesn’t intend to hurt me, I don’t think she can even swat a fly let alone say anything with the intention to be rude. 

If only she knew what she does to me, how much of a hold she has over me, despite our brief time together. However, like the narrator of Emily’s poem, I must keep my silence. I’ve found that trying to talk and explain always leads to more problems than solving them. Alex of all people should understand that.


	2. June 10th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Strand continues his journal writing, ruminating on Alex, Cora Lee, the Washington weather, and The Festival of Upside-Down Face.

In a small town like Charlesworth, I expected the motel to be a rat infested, hell-hole that not even a desperate college student would take. I thought of the under-kept hostels in Europe. But to our surprise, the room quality was excellent despite it being festival season with slim pickings. Our room was small, but the two beds provided were comfortable, Alex sleeping soundly was testament to that. The soft mattress tempted me to sleep, but I just couldn’t sleep that night The sound of late night party-goers and revelers kept me up. How Alex could sleep through the ruckus was beyond me. Almost unfair, that she could sleep, but I was left to my thoughts.

I saw her phone was charging, resting on the end table we shared. Looking at it made me sick to my stomach. Alex has that youthful, lackadaisical care-free view about her safety- the attitude that nothing can hurt her which is usually reserved for teenagers. She worries about a ‘phantom message’ left on her phone rather than the obvious, the conspiracy theorists who say I can’t be trusted. Still, I wish I hadn’t left when I did. I saw her phone. I saw her leave it. Yet I fell into the same cozy sense of safety and up and left her phone defenseless. Like Cora Lee. I turn my back – I let down my guard for just a second- and something bad happens. Am I cursed? No. There’s an explanation to everything. It was simply hackers and kidnappers. 

I heard fireworks. Alex mumbled something. But she rolled onto her other side, and went right back to sleep.  I remember envying her ability to sleep so soundly. It was ten pm by then, I think. We decided to stick around for the festival, see it full force and take pictures. We didn’t ‘celebrate’ it, no. How can anyone celebrate the death of two women who shouldn’t have died? (Teenagers are cruel, I suppose). But we walked around town, looked at the decorations and masks, spoke to a few people, and we enjoyed ourselves the best we could. We even caught the early fireworks show. The weather was perfect for the festival, despite its macabre history. It was warm with a gentle breeze, just enough so the smoke didn’t sit in the sky when the fireworks went off. I could tolerate the warmth, but Alex could not. (She prefers the fall). Before we left for the festivities, she changed into more casual wear suitable for the heat; shorts, a loose tee, and sneakers. 

During the fireworks show, Alex bought some sparklers from a vendor and lit them one by one. She watched the bright yellow lights in front her with awe. Though I stood a good distance from her, I could see how wide her eyes were. It was as though the lights put her in a trance. The lights caught her dark eyes; the reflection looked like tiny stars against the darkness of her irises. When it went out, she blinked, pulled back from her fantasies, and promptly lit another one.

“People light candles for the dead, but I could only find sparklers. Do you think they would mind?” she asked, eyes cast up to the smoky skies. What she was searching for, I have no idea. Perhaps she was seeking a sign of approval from the girls who lost their lives.

“So long as we understand the tragedy, I think Sarah and Catherine won’t mind at all.” I replied, reassuring her. 

She offered me her last sparkler. But I refused. I had drunk more than usual that night. The sheriff had wonderful taste in whiskey. (He gave me a bottle of the same stuff we had in the station as a gift.) Alex only nodded at my refusal, understanding, not asking for an explanation. She just accepted it. Alex accepts everything really, except half answers and lies. But I didn’t refuse on the fact of my drink intake (though it was a factor). I refused because it reminded me of Cora Lee. They reminded me of better times, before she disappeared, of nights we would spend on the beach, and the parties we would go together. Those little lights represented everything I lost when Cora Lee disappeared. And in that moment, with her hand stretched out, offering me the sparkler, dressed in her summer attire, I swore she looked like Cora Lee. No, not looked like, for a brief second I thought she  _was_  Cora Lee before the signature sound of firecrackers nearby brought me back to reality. Alex was Alex, she would never be Cora Lee.

The fireworks died down along with the party antics as the night progressed. Alex was still asleep. The light from her cell phone painted her in a dull blue light. In the dim light, I could see a little smile spread on her face. Did she always smile in her sleep, or only when her dreams were pleasant? I remember wondering what she dreamed about, if she dreamed at all. Were her dreams based in fantasy, or did reality often invade them? I heard the phone call she had with Cora Lee’s parents, briefly though. (I left to get some dinner for us, I didn’t want to eavesdrop. Nor did I want to confront my in-laws.) Were the words they said to her running inside her head? Did she believe them? If she could hear my worried thoughts, she did not show it. She had no business to worry about me. Her business was to tell the truth and a story, my story. Why give her more work to her already large pile?

It’s midnight now. We’re back in back in Seattle. I dropped Alex off at her apartment. Yet again, I’m pulling an all-nighter in my office, preparing for another meeting. Again I’ll be using my desk as a bed and my arms as pillow. I hope Alex is sleeping well, safe and sound in a real bed. She just sent me text wishing me a goodnight. She’s always so kind to me…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Strand is as enigmatic as ever. But thats why we love him, right? (And that wonderful laugh of his). Also, I’m really iffy on the timeline of this episode; what happened on each day, the exact date of the festival, etc. And I’m not sure if they would actually attend the festival. But for fic purposes, lets assume the events of Ep.4 took place between June 5th (date of first journal) and June 9th (day Ep. 4 was released). If anyone can make a better timeline, please let me know immediately. If there are errors, dont be afraid to tell me.


	3. June 18th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strand reflects on the events of Episode 5; exorcisms, Alex’s safety, what he’d give -or wouldn’t give- to have Cora Lee back, and tarot cards.

I value my privacy, as Alex and many others have come to know. In the short amount of time we’ve gotten to know one another, she has quickly accepted there are some topics I cannot - and will not- discuss with her. One of those topics is what I fear.

Alex is an open book when it comes to her emotions and her fears. A gasp, a little flinch, or the weakening of a smile are the little tells I’ve witnessed when something got to her. Like many, she fears the unknown. And she’s terrified of spiders and snakes. Our latest case revealed more, her fear of demons and possession. Hypothetically, it is a terrifying concept, losing control of your actions and being left at another’s whim. But like everything on her podcast, it can be rationally explained. Demons do not exist. She -and thousands of others who share her fear- have nothing to worry about. But no amount of comfort and evidence I can provide for her, she still holds on to the idea that it  _could_  happen. Of course I shouldn’t talk of fearing what could happen. My odds of drowning at sea or being buried alive are astronomically low, yet anytime the thought of it comes to mind, I shudder. My skin crawls like ants have gotten underneath my skin and sometimes I break out in cold sweat.

 I hear talk around Alex’s offices - mostly from the interns- they say that I’m absolutely fearless. ‘The Ever Unfettered Dr. Strand’ as I am known, among other things less pleasant than this title. They say nothing can scare me, or shake off my apparent “stoic” visage. I am human; however, I do know fear. Whether they are rational or irrational depends. 

One of those rational fears is being followed, and the sudden appearance of Brayden Court only strengthened it. I thought I gotten rid of that bastard years ago. But like a damn fly, he comes swarming where ever I am. Alex, unaware of how dangerous he truly was, went to meet him. (I must remember to buy something for Nic for insisting to come along with Alex.) Had I known she was going to meet him, I would’ve come with her too. He invaded my space one time with Cora Lee, I refuse to let him get to me again via Alex. 

We fought when she brought up Court (thankfully she cut it out of the podcast). And everything she said to me was like a slap to the face.

“I’m not a damn child Strand!” she shouted as she paced back and forth in my office. “I can take care of myself. And I knew when to walk away!”

“You shouldn’t have been in his presence in the first place. He’s going to hound and stalk you until you give in to his conspiracy theories and lies.” I argued back. I kept trying to talk to her face to face, but she kept turning away from me. 

“I brought Nic with me. I’m not fucking stupid Richard!”

She only used my first name when she was upset. I didn’t argue any further. She left my office quickly, slamming the door shut, maybe left to walk off her anger. For the time she was gone, I paced around in worry, .  I even called her cell, but she shut it off. I thought she wasn’t coming back. That she was going to abandon me. Another fear of mine, abandonment. Whether it’s irrational or rational is up for debate. At the time when the prospect of losing Alex was at its peak, it was more than rational to me. I must be honest, I consider her my friend, a friend who respects my privacy, and a colleague. You don’t just ‘lose’ a friend like that. And I’ll be damned if I lose Alex.

Which leads to another fear of mine, one that places higher on the list - even above drowning, live burial, or abandonment. It’s Alex getting hurt.  That damned stubborn, bulldog like bravery of hers was the reason that started this argument. She thumbs her nose at trouble and goes on her merry way without any hesitation. She’s not aware of the danger she places herself. As the minutes passed, my anxious mind cooked up ways that she could’ve gotten hurt. Brayden was stalking her and had kidnapped her when she left my office. She had went to the office to pull the plug on the podcast. She went on the first plane out of Seattle to anywhere. Thirty minutes I spent in the mental hell I drove myself to.

But half an hour later, she came back with a thermos of plain black tea for me and a cup of coffee for herself. I nearly hugged her, I was so happy to see her again. But I restrained myself, welcoming her with a small smile and letting have my chair. The coffee was horrible, but was the best white flag she could offer in short time. It’s the thought that counts, right? And as always, we put the argument aside and continued our work like mature adults. 

When I showed her the tape of the exorcism, she stood close behind me, holding onto my shoulder for balance. She has to do this, or all she sees is my back. Her grasp tightened at the end when the girl lifted the men. I wanted to touch her hand to assure her safety. But I resisted, and claimed my usually stance of how it was fake, a simple set up meant to impress a less critical thinking person. The look in her eyes was conflicted, confused, torn in believing me and believing what she saw. It remained when she left my office to continue her work on the podcast.

Days later, she came rushing into my office with a CD. She was a mess; her hair limp and frizzy, her shirt wrinkled, and her jeans wet at the ankles when she ran through a puddle left by an evening storm. Letting her catch her breath, she shoved the CD in my face.

“Listen.” she ordered. And I did.

My wife. My Cora Lee. She sounded like she always did, calm and inquisitive as she wandered through some unknown woods. She lost the strain and nervousness that plagued her the months before our trip to Big Sur. For once, I knew how Alex felt, left with more questions than answers. What happened to her after the end of the tape? Where is the rest of this recording? And, most importantly of all, who was Warren? An old friend from college? One of her fellow graduate students that helped her with her work? Or was he another…indiscretion of hers?

Regaining her composure, Alex asked my permission to play it on the podcast. Nodding weakly, I agreed. And like she came in, she went sprinting out my office like a gun had been shot close to her ear, frantically tearing into her bag to call her co-workers. 

Since the episode aired, I’ve listened to the recording god knows how many times. I missed hearing her. I miss hearing her, I should say. Lord only knows what I’d give to have Cora Lee and the life we had back then. What  _would_  I give, within reason? If she appeared before me and said that she would come back to me on the condition I gave up something, what would I give?

My work? Without a doubt. I’d retire in a heartbeat and pack our bags for a quiet place, the cabin in the mountains she always talked about.

The research? No questions asked. I’d turn over every paper and black tape to Alex, notes included so she may continue her work on the podcast. She would brave forward, she always does.

And Alex? 

Alex. The stray variable. The wild card. The Fool that Cora Lee always loved above all else in her tarot deck. 

No. I will not risk her safety - or anyone else’s safety- for wants, as much as I want to see Cora Lee or have a perfect marriage again. Cora Lee has been gone for so many years; I can live a few more.

Cora Lee likened herself as The High Priestess card, as a wise figure, that anyone could talk to and gain advice from. The lighthouse in the storm. The watchwords. Surely she would understand why I couldn’t sacrifice Alex for her. She was always so intelligent, not in the way that I was, but of the humanities. She understood people, emotions, and the arts. People loved her, and she loved people. And she loved to love. Hate was a foul word in our house, rarely used even at our worst. 

I still have her tarot deck, one of many things of Cora Lee’s I still keep in storage. I have it in my desk drawer, nearby and always at hand. They’re worn at the edges and the color has faded. I put fanning powder on them ever month so I can shuffle and examine them when it strikes my fancy or when I like to remember the better times I had with Cora Lee.

 Alex does not know about the cards, but I hope someday I’ll be able to tell her this other secret of mine. I wonder how she’ll react, how the ever-so-skeptical Richard Strand owns a tarot deck. With amusement and a witty comment of the irony, I hope. For now, however, the secret stays within these pages. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of episode 10, here is the latest addition to this series. I’ve been slacking and spoiling you guys with fluffy fics! Also I’m really iffy on the end, what would Richard give to see Cora Lee again? I’m thinking he’d be reasonable enough that he wouldn’t endanger someone’s life -especially Alex’s (for shipping reasons)- to ensure Cora Lee return, especially now that its revealed that she had an affair. But you never know, Ive never been married so I dont know exactly what a spouse would do to find a missing partner who cheated on them. So enjoy! And pardon the OOCness of it all.

**Author's Note:**

> As Alex states, Stand is an enigma, so trying to write what he would write in a journal (if he kept one) was a maddening process. Truly, I don’t think I did him justice, but I had to try! I like a challenge, and I love the whole opposites attract thing that Strand and Alex got going. Im still kind of new to this whole fanfic thing, mainly because I'm so used to writing about my own original characters.


End file.
